


Darkly Dreaming... Myka?

by Redlance



Category: Dexter (TV), Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She feeds the darkness the only way she knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkly Dreaming... Myka?

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : Characters don’t belong to me and the world of “Dexter”, while not all that visible in this snippet, doesn’t belong to me either.
> 
>  
> 
> **Notes** : So, this is largely [maiagaru’s](http://maiagaru.tumblr.com) fault. And by largely I mean it’s 90% her fault because we started talking about this months ago and she’s been badgering me to write it. But that remaining 10% is all me because apparently I can’t say no to anything… I’m working on it. ;) This whole thing has a mostly fleshed out backstory that might never see the light of day though, so if for some reason you’d like to know more about what’s going on in this fic and why, and can’t wait to see if I get my shit together and write more, you can always [inbox me](http://redlance.tumblr.com/ask). XD This is kind of… rough, I guess, and some of you might find it a tad OOC without all the backstory, so I’ll apologise for that ahead of time. Hopefully there will be more of the story to come in the future.

* * *

He's ripped from unconsciousness by a jackhammer pounding against the forefront of his skull. Heavy lids struggle to open and when they do his vision is assaulted with blurred, too-white light. His throat is sandpaper-dry and he has no idea where he is or how he came to be here. The last thing he rememberS is pressing the automatic unlock button on the key fob for his car, then everything's black. Until this blinding white. 

His vision swims as he tries to sit up and finds himself unable. Feels a weight against his entire body. It's a moment or two before he realises he's pinned to something, strapped down to a solid structure at his back. 

Then there's panic. 

And a face appears. 

At first he wonders if she's an angel, hovering above him. Waiting to guide him to heaven. He wonders how he died. 

“Do you know what they do to child killers in prison?” And with those words, he realises he hasn't. Yet. He explodes in a flurry of minimal movement, muscles flexing in a vain attempt to break his bonds. He's wrapped in some kind of plastic, like a god damn fish shrink-wrapped for market, and he can't move enough to get any kind of leverage. Eventually, he collapses back against the table he now understands he's laid out on and stares up at the face of the woman who hasn't moved an inch during his struggle. She arches an eyebrow at him, waiting for an answer.

“The fuck do you want from me?” She lunges then, bringing their faces close together and jabbing the point of her index finger against the bare patch of skin where his eyebrows meet above the bridge of his nose. The same jackhammer pounding from before. He turns his head, trying to get away, but a gloved hand reaches out to grasp his jaw and hold him in place and he winces. 

“I want you,” she says, voice loud and strong and filled with **something** before it softens, “to tell me why those children deserved to die.” He tries to break her hold, tries to look away from burning emerald eyes, but her fingers dig hard into his cheeks. 

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He manages to spit around the grip and he watches with horror as something dark passes over her face. She turns his head then, craning it at an awkward angle and moving herself so that he can see the photographs taped to the plastic sheets that line every inch of the room. He doesn't recognise his surroundings, but the children? He knows their faces. 

Movements erratic, she lets go of his face and stalks to the head of the table, grabbing him by the side of his face so he can't look away from the pictures. 

“I'm talking about **them**.” She barks, voice dripping anger and impatience. “Alison Brown, eight-years-old. Found dumped in a river, or at least her body was.” Her thumbs press against his temples until they hurt. “Alejandro Herrera, ten, taken from the playground in his neighbourhood where his beheaded body was later found.” They go down the line and he listens as she recites his work to him. Three girls, two boys, each light doused by his hand. “Why.” She stresses the word in a way that makes it sound like a statement rather than a question. One he can't avoid. There's no option for him to refuse to answer. 

“'Cause they deserved it!” He yells, body flexing beneath the plastic. She lets his head go without warning and it falls back against the table with an audible thunk. “They told me, they deserved it. They asked me to kill them.” He watches as she turns away from him, moving to fiddle with something he can't see. “They wouldn't... I tried to make them stop, but they wouldn't leave me alone.”

“Who wouldn't?” She asks, back still to the table. Her voice is dead now, tone emotionless, and something about it makes the panic already coursing through him swell to new heights. 

“The voices, the fucking voices. They tell me what to do and I do it, okay? I didn't want to! You gotta believe me!” She turns on him then and he gets his first good look at her. She's tall, with curly brown hair tied back away from her face in a half ponytail. She's pretty, very pretty, but there's an edge of something unknown that loiters about her features. Shadowing them in areas that would otherwise be lighted by beauty. She's dressed in dark nondescript clothes and, strangely, an apron and the glow from the bulb above them glints off the knife in her hand. She holds it in a steady hand and brings her left up to touch the pad of her index finger to its sharpened tip. 

“See, that's the great thing about **you** ,” she points the tip towards him, “being on **my** ,” then back at herself, “table.” And she takes one long step forward and bends so that he can see all the fire and fury in her eyes as her hot breath ghosts along his face. Then there's white hot pain as the blade slices into his cheek and warmth spills out onto his skin. “I don't have to believe a single god damn word that comes out of your mouth.” He screams. Shouts and yells and struggles against his bindings as she fiddles with two rectangular pieces of plastic that now house a deep red spot of his blood. “I already know about those kids from your youth,” she tilts the slide until the light catches it, “know how they teased you. Made your life hell. I know that you were twelve the first time you took a life.” And she smiles, a real breathtaking smile as she pockets the slide. “You've been a bad boy, Adrian.” He whimpers then, shoulders shifting just a little beneath the plastic wrap as her smile turns into a sneer. “And it's time for you to be punished.” In a flash, she's lifted the knife from where she'd laid it beside him and has it poised above his heart.

“Please, no!! Don't- don't do this, please. Anything but this!” Her hand wavers and she blinks bright eyes at him.

“Did you listen to them beg, Adrian?” She asks, all sincere curiosity. “Beg for the lives they'd barely begun to live?” With a practised hand she slams the knife back against the metal table and grips at its edge with both hands. Bending at the hips, she bows forward, dropping her head so that he can no longer see her face. There's a long and terrible moment of deafening silence and then, “There are so many people in this world who deserve to die. So many more than those whose lives were snuffed out without good reason. Fathers, sisters, brothers...” she tilts her head so that the light from the bulb catches it once more and there are tears in her eyes. “Daughters. Lovers.” Her expression turns blank, anger and sorrow melting away until the tears that track her cheek are only a distant echo. Then all at once, she's back in the room, lifting a hand to brush fallen curls out of her eyes. “People who didn't deserve to meet their ends so soon.” Her hand drifts back towards the table and grasps the knife once more. “But you're not one of those people, Adrian.” 

“Please, you don't have to-”

“Do you know what they do to child killers in prison?” She asks again, and this time he shakes his head. She leans in close enough that her lips brush the shell of his ear as she whispers into it. “They torture them. Cut them down inch by inch, day by day, until they beg for the sweet release of death and then they cut them down a little bit more.” The words drip with seduction, he can hear it, feel it, even through his terror. “So really,” she jerks away from him, straightening to her full height and raising the knife again, “I'm doing you a favour.” He has just enough time to draw in a final breath before a lightning-quick snap of muscles bring the blade back down. 

It pierces the plastic and sinks into his chest like a knife into butter. Her eyes flutter closed at the moment of impact, but she opens them again once she feels warmth reaching for her. Beneath the wrapping his blood spills out like a morbid fountain, spreading to fill the wrinkles and creases in the material like an indecent casting of the human form. She finds it as magnificent now as she did the first time. 

And that's what she loves about it. One of the things at least. Nothing about it changes, except that which she allows. She's always in control, always has the final say. The people on her table are **meant** to die, and they do. Any way she wants them to. 

It's a measure of control sorely needed when moments of grief grip her. When faces of the past come to greet her on a morning she isn't ready for them to. 

“And how do you plan to dispose of this one?” Luckily for her, she's prepared at the present moment. She lets go of the knife handle protruding from the man's chest and turns to flash a smile in the direction of the voice. 

Helena looks much the same as she did when she was alive. All svelte elegance and disarming seductive appeal. You'd never guess she was no longer a member of the land of the living to look at her, but then Myka's the only one that can see her, so no one else has the opportunity to have an opinion. 

“Why don't you tell me?” Her smile turns wide and coy as she pulls off a rubber glove in order to answer the phone that has started vibrating against her leg. “That is your area of expertise, Miss Scientist.” Helena arches an eyebrow but says nothing as Myka stares down at the display on her cell for a few heartbeats longer than necessary before hitting the answer button. “Hey Claud, what's up?” Myka gives the knife a twist before pulling it out.

“Hey. This a bad time?” She balances the phone between her jaw and shoulder so that she can wipe the blood off the blade with a cloth sheds packed for just such a purpose. She rests it atop the cloth and smiles into the receiver. She misses Claudia. Missing them all. Probably more than they can ever imagine. 

“Nope.” But the Warehouse holds too many bad memories now and she's changed far too much to ever be the person they remember. Her fingers dance over the bonesaw tucked safely into the black material pocket of the carrying case she keeps her tools in. “Just doing a little remodelling.” She's come a long way from Farnsworths and Teslas.


End file.
